Hands Outstretched... Empty
A small wooden cross was left on a page.
Jesus wishing he could tuck his arms into his ribs;
outstretched and awkward as a strangers
bathroom mirror smile.
I snapped the arms off quite easily
like insect wings
and it seemed to have
the very same significance.
I give the same amount of consideration to god
as I do my own mortality;
there is simply time for neither..
maybe an eternity when I am gone,
I’ll have found reason for my existing
and still be able to go back
and live it all again without a sense of urgency.
I’ll believe only in the womb of the star
burning after death in embryonic sustaining,
with life’s only real solution; to forget,
forget so utterly as to be reborn.
I’ll feel Deja-Vu and inspiration deeply embed
for the millionth time;
contemplating the sunflower in your hair.
Glad that I can pass you, looking back
and not so swathed by apathy
as we are towards the end, filled with so much dread
when the sunflower has lost its meaning;
with its brittle stem leaning and its weak arms outspread.